Dear Nationalist

by - June 20, 2017

Chronicles of Paulinus
I am a nationalist, so you boast with your team of free readers association before Papa Ogadi’s Newspaper stand. They believe you. They don’t have any choice not to. You argue in and out of box about the failed government, the ‘democrazy’ as you call it. They believe you when you tell them that what NTA broadcast yesterday at 9 o’clock is baggage of lies. You are the local mobile commentator on the state of the nation. You tell them that Nigeria was jinxed by the Colonial master before they relinquished power.

When they leave you after the morning chin-wagging at the vendors stand you pine the nation’s past that flourished with opportunities and greenly hopes. The scars of colonialism that leave your nation (the giant of Africa) hunkering down at the foot of her former masters smear the faces of the nation’s future tomorrows. You dislike them – not the future tomorrows but the imperialist west. You hate the fact that they plundered the nation’s economy and now are back for the fecund minds. A harvest of minds, that’s what you call it. You hate the fact that they underdeveloped your once prosperous nation and now they turn back and call her developing – like a ravished virgin. Disgusting! You’re such a grim nationalist (the likes of Awolowo and Soyinka.) And you’re perfect as one.
But that’s all in ideas.
Now; just now! You finish telling them how Boko Haram is senseless and fanatical. You are strolling back home. Suddenly, the thing is holding you again – konji. Not now, not now, you say. You will not swat off the thought, you know that well. It’s a call of nature, and I have to answer it, you mutter. You lurk in the deserted military quarters with your eyes devouring every nook and cranny waiting for them – the plunderable ones. They’re only there to satisfy our hungry libido, you convince yourself.
You love the plunderable ones – the little secondary school children. They always move in droves in the heart of the day. But in the tail of the afternoon, they linger like droplets of honey on glass rim, hours separating them as they pass in scanty numbers. You always do this: rape. No, you call it love making reinvented. You really love them, so you say. Just as the way the west love Africa: the untapped juicy bodies, the easy yielding, and the moaning between struggles you so much savour. You like that struggle to get them to yield, the freedom to exert your manliness on their frail bodies: love play. You love when they scream and dab your dangling chest with their petite fists. You love it when your torso covers them so that they can’t escape its eclipse on them.
Now you see one approaching. Hello Nne bia, you call.
She looks at you, eyes weaken with hunger, Good afternoon sir, she bends her knee slightly, her hands sweeping down from her waist. She looks vulnerable, fragile, weak. Yes, you say, that’s the kind you like. There is none around, only the receding sun flooding the street with its yellow rays. Your darting eyes stand on your head like a sentry. You swoop on her like a kite on a chick, and in seconds everything is bare. You mount and thrust, thrust and thrust so hard that she bleeds. The hymen shreds. You dissolve like a pile of okirika and pour on her freaking body. She cries and struggles to push you aside. You lick, you kiss, and suck those tears. They taste salty, you like it.
You zip your trousers and threaten her, if anybody hears about this I will make sure you will not live to see the next day.
She picks her dress, specks of sands stick on the gory bum. You stare at it and you whack it. You need more but not now. She cries and mumbles curses between sobs and hiccups, beats off the sand and dresses. You tell her that she is beautiful, but she says God will pay you. You laugh hysterically and start to the street. It’s done, you tell yourself.
She is not the first and surely not the last. When you meet your friend and tell him, that you enjoy it this way and that way, he calls you a savage beast, anger wrinkles your forehead. That is the name you call the imperialist – savage beast. He cannot understand the crease on your face: anger or surprise.
You say that the imperialist plundered your nation's resources because they felt they had the power to do it, he asks you.
You say, yes, they took our resources without remaining anything for our future tomorrows.
He sees your rage jostling your eyes around. But what is the difference between what they did to our nation and what you do to our young virgin girls? he demands.
Your mouth opens slightly and shuts instantly.
Imagine the damage, he says, the little ones you ravage are the future tomorrows you claim to fight for.
You know he is telling the truth and you dare not reply in your usual manner. But your heart is honing the dagger between your thighs for another cut. There riz God. Continue…      

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